


Old souls, Old stars

by haematicMagic



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Old Age, Oneshot, modern Era?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 22:59:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19485757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haematicMagic/pseuds/haematicMagic
Summary: Javert doesn't die, Valjean doesn't grow old either, although both don't fully end up happy. But then, they meet up again coincidentally...





	Old souls, Old stars

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is all kinds of unrealistic and probably very bad since I write my fanfics exclusively at 3:00 in the morning and dont proofread properly bc thats how I roll. Please still enjoy.

It had been the longest day of summer, as Valjean had later called it.   
He had found his way to the Balcony and sat there, contemplating. Yes, his Life had turned out good, the Nurses were kind and Marius and Cosette visited regularly and with honest enthusiasm. But still, his strength has vanished with age, his sight has gone bad, his eyes droopy. His only joy lay in the kind nurses, the readings of the children visiting on most Sundays and the bi-weekly visits of Marius and Cosette. He sighed and raised his head to the sky. The Sun made its last weak attempts to cast rays of gold and scarlet against the sky and the first stars glistened in the dark void. Just as he wanted to go inside again, return to his room and read a little bit before going to sleep, he heard someone breaking into a cough beside him.  
He was startled, as he thought himself alone and looked over. There sat a man, a little younger than him, an orderly white beard and wearing a blazer like a uniform. His Hair, attitude and wheelchair said army or police and, remembering an old aquaintance, Valjean stepped over to him.

“Watching the sky too, I suspect?”  
The Man looked, turned his head slowly and his eyes were pale, blue and hardened from a life of discipline. He smiled, which looked strange for a face used to sternness.

“I guess so. I used to pay so much attention to the stars, back then.”

He looked up again, at the moon, the almost full moon, and the stars.

“Back then? Have you served?”

Valjean pulled along a chair, his interest in the man beside him wiping away all ache in his bones and sat down next to the strange man.

“Police, in Paris and here, long ago.”

He tried to not look frightened or taken aback. He was not running anymore, there was no one to hunt him now. It was just chatter with an old man that reminded him of someone.

“May I then know the story of your…”  
“My wheelchair? Oh, God. You know, I only tell that story to people I have long known and those are far and few apart these days”

The Man sounded nostalgic and sad, in a way, as if he regretted not finding more people to care about him in his younger days. A suspicion grew in Jean.

“I am very sorry if its a touchy subject, Mister. Thank you for your service, by the way.”  
“Oh, no, don’t be. I will tell the story to you, for I know you. After all these years I have found you, Jean Valjean. And you deserve to know what happened after the sewers.”

Now, Valjean was truly surprised. It was who he thought he had been, it was Javert. He had thought him dead, but no one else was possible. Now that they were old, all Hate and Fear had passed, and he examined his old rival. He looked very similar to that night in the sewer, a bit paler, a bit softer, a bit sadder, just like he himself, Valjean, had aged. Javert looked at him and smiled, a sight that was so unusual to him that Valjean must have looked startled, because the man spoke up again:  
“Oh, don’t look like that. I had a lot of time to think about everything. I know who you really are and who I have been and who got what they deserved.”

He gestured at his wheelchair. His voice cracking a bit.

“After the sewers… I went to look at the stars and decided that being right could decide over the worth of a life. And I took my measures. They eventually found me, and I lived but this is what it brought me.”

He looked at his legs, his voice only a sore whisper.

“Javert… I’m sorry. I don’t believe you deserve this.”

Valjean said it and meant it. There was no Time left for false principles, for pride, for hate. No time for either of them to insist on being right.

“I do. I did, a long time. I couldn’t believe you were good, for you were a convict. I couldn’t believe a convict could be good because good people don’t get convicted. I was... so stubborn.”

Javert didn’t look happy, just accepting. 

“I said it then, I’ll say it now, Javert: You have done your duty, you did what you thought was right. If anything, you are as much a victim of society as I and that little barricade boy.”  
“His Name was Gavroche, by the way.”  
“Oh.”

A long silence followed, in which neither of them felt the urge to say anything. The had been hunted, had been hunting, for so long, had served and judged in more ways than good. Anything had been said and it had left them with the simple understanding of two men, human and insignificant under the stars and, in that way, similar and equal. Valjean had never held a grudge and Javert did never act out of spite and as soon as they had realized this, it was forgiven and forgotten. Valjean was glad.

“Should we go inside? The Nurses will worry.”

Valjean nodded and got up, helping Javert to turn himself around.

“Let’s go. The worst is behind us, Javert.”

And they went and later, went to bed. The next day, they shared a table and a place to look at the stars in the evening. And sometimes, in the silence of content company, they heard the people sing.


End file.
